


Sir

by Daryl_Alenko



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Fic For A Movie That Isn't Out Yet, First Time, M/M, Sassy Ransom, Seriously Do Not Expect ANY Of This To Happen In The Film, Smut Happens At The End, This Will Be So Jossed, eventual Porn with Feelings, mild dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21601849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daryl_Alenko/pseuds/Daryl_Alenko
Summary: Detective Benoit Blanc is a Sherlockian level detective, capable of tucking all of his emotions into a neat little box in order to get the job done. Until this case. Until his introduction to Ransom Drysdale.Now, he finds himself constantly cornered by the young man, left shaken and torn on a level he simply isn't used to.(All you really need to know about the film is to have seen the trailer.)
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Ransom Thrombey
Comments: 22
Kudos: 91





	Sir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jujukittychick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujukittychick/gifts).



> Okay, the title for this is taken straight from jujukittychick 's fic of the same pairing. Because I never realized I needed a power dynamic in which one is called Sir, so badly. 
> 
> Despite the fact that this movie isn't even out yet, we have found ourselves jumping feet first into this pairing, and this is my answer to Naked Truth. Because 007 with a southern accent and Captain America with fuzzy sweaters and ALL OF THE SASS deserves smutty things. Though this will be smut with some feelings. 
> 
> I am -not- usually a smut writer, so forgive me if this isn't well written, but I had to give it a try! 
> 
> PS. My dear enabler, jujukittychick, this is all your fault ... and I really wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

Detective Benoit Blanc is not given to vain musings. Instead, he prefers to deal in simple truths and facts. Life is infinietly easier that way. It is also a rather important boon for his profession. 

Which is why the feeling of ill ease that he experienced should've been his first clue that this would not be a regular case.

* * *

His first glimpse of the Drysdale-Thrombey family is ... lacking to be sure. They come across as the typical family of entitled rich pricks that think themselves completely above the law. He's seen dozens like them ... convicted every one of the guilty assholes, too. That is not to say he has a vendetta against the rich, but more .. he hates people who think they can get away with murder. 

Sadly, his interest is not fully engaged until he is glancing out an upstairs window. The sound of dogs barking and a car door slamming draws him toward the open window. His only intention had been a curious glance, but no sooner is he peeking out than he finds himself rooted to the spot. 

A strapping younger man in deep tinted shades and a long sweater coat tries to shoo the swarming dogs away. Within a few steps, however, his head swivels and even if he cannot see his eyes, Blanc knows that he is looking right at him. It sends a shaky shiver down his spine and for reasons he does not understand, causes him to jerk back, into the shadows. He quickly pulls his tweed over coat off, straightens his tie, and yanks his glasses off, shoving them into the pocket of the removed coat. He fights down the irrational desire to shove the bundle of fabric into some remote, out of the way place, and cannot begin to understand -why- he feels that way. It's a damn coat!

With a bit of an internal growl, he places the coat on the first surface he can find and moves to take his chair in the sitting room, where the family are congregating.

* * *

Ransom Drysdale-Thrombey. He can feel his muscles tightening all at once as he rests in the chair beside the piano. Agile fingers ache to stroke the ivory keys, to give some beautiful, twisted soundtrack to the moment of chaos as the family gathers for what will prove to be one hell of an emotional, backstabbing show, no doubt. 

He doesn't need an individual interview with these people to understand their motivations. They are a dime a dozen posh prats and if he were not such a slave to his need for justice, he wouldn't be here. He'd be as far away as possible, pretending that families like this don't actually exist. 

His hands have begun to twitch ... longing to -do- something but he knows that he can't. Yet. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his coin. The familiar weight of it is an instant comfort, and he can breathe a little easier. In fact, he even has to suppress a shiver as the cool, slick coin passes between his fingers. A glance up reveals that a single pair of eyes tracks his every movement.

Ransom Drysdale-Thrombey.

His well honed instincts flutter and surge, leaving him feeling shocked and a little winded. He's not used to such an instant feeling of raised hackles that isn't accompanied by proof that someone is bad. Instead, he just feels .. well, -winded-. He tries to look away, but something deep inside of him refuses to cooperate. Instead, he looks a little closer. Casts a side-long glance at the young man settled in an overdone antique chair. The kind of over colored, over stitched piece that was popular 100 years ago, at least. He will never understand why every rich person out there seemed to gravitate toward the same kind of tackiness. 

Ransom is a barely contained ball of negative energy. That is to say, he has a shark-like smile that is partially scary but mostly handsome. That right there is a big red flag clue that he's in trouble, but Blanc ignores it for now in favor of further study. Of course, it was supposed to be intellectual study, but not so much. Because the next thing he cataloges is just how full the younger man's lips are as they tug into a shit eating grin that is part charming and part infuriating. Somehow, the infuriating just makes it -that much more charming-. 

He may hate Ransom a little bit. 

In a bid to shift his attention elsewhere, he repositions himself in his chair. Leans back, melts into it, loose and care free in his best observation pose.

Apparently, Ransom is the kind of spoiled brat that doesn't take well to the loss of attention. 

Even as Blanc resettles, Ransom shifts ever so subtly. At least, to the untrained eye. He slowly leans forward, elbows falling to brace against his knees, shoulders hunched, putting himself right in the corner of Blanc's eye. Letting the detective know that he's right there, though Blanc cannot begin to guess -why- he wants to be seen. Is it a bid to seem too out going thus make it seem as if he has nothing to hide? Or is he just that self absorbed, that he has to be the centre of someone's attention at all times?

Such a personality probably makes for an interesting bedmate. The kind that would beg and plead for attention.

He shuts the thought down instantly, biting the inside of his cheek until he nearly splits the skin, trying to distract himself.

* * *

Of course, he was correct. The chaos of this family forced under one roof was a show to behold. Eventually, once it degenerated into everyone screaming at Ransom for his attitude, Blanc had found himself doing something so very rare; getting the hell out of dodge. He had slipped out of the room before their idiocy gave him a headache. The last thing he needs when a clear head is required, is a headache.

(He is ignoring the fact that watching the entirety of the family round on Ransom had irked him no end. He doesn't know the spoiled little brat from Adam, but he found himself wanting to tell them all to back off and let the kid breathe.)

The house is an ostentatious love story to a man with a giant ego. It's all old fashion glamour and sleek posh living and it makes him feel a little sick. It is a house, not a home, and he almost feels sorry for the people that have lived here. Murder might seem like the only way to break free, but it doesn't make it right. 

(He is also ignoring the part of him that hopes Ransom is innocent. That is -swearing- Ransom is innocent because the alternative doesn't seem viable. Why? He hasn't the first clue! Again, he doesn't know the kid, but he feels .. protective after watching the vultures descend.)

He walks almost aimlessly through the hall, a semi-permanent frown plastered on his handsome, weathered features. He has cast a keen eye to the floor and draws up short when something on the carpet catches his attention. He carefully lowers himself to his knees and then stretches out, wincing a little at the fact that his ass is up in the air as he tries to inspect a little closer. 

"Gotta say .. if I knew that detective work was this interesting, I might have done something with my life." The voice is sugar sweet and hits all the wrong notes in Blanc's opinion. And yet ... and yet, that doesn't stop him from closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to calm himself. The fact that he -needs- to calm down is a shock he isn't prepared to handle, so he does what he is doing best since stepping into this house ... ignoring it. 

"I highly doubt that's true, Mr. Drysdale-Thrombey." He tries to sound dry and disinterested, staring hard at the carpet stretched out in front of him. But for some reason, his insides have seized and he feels .. off balance. It's the worst possible feeling a man that lives to be in control can feel. 

"Ugh. Just call me Ransom ... my full last name sucks. Makes me sound like a Victorian porn star or something. You know, if they had even had Victorian porn. Huh. Gonna have to look that up now." He's rambling. The rich pretty boy is rambling and that should not come across as endearing, but it does. Blanc does -not- find things endearing. They are one of two things ... helpful, or useless. Never. Endearing.

"Is there a reason you are here, rather than in there with your family?" He knows it's a stupid question, even as he's asking it. Who in their right -mind- would want to stay in a room with those people? Even if he's grown up with them? 

"Are you serious? Like, are you being serious right now? Did we not exit from the -same room- for the -same reason-? That's just the dumbest question ever." Ransom has gone from playful to sass in record time, and Blanc feels a little lightheaded with the change. He has not had the repeated exposure one needs to acclimate to someone's mood changes, but he doesn't think that matters. How the hell does one acclimate to a man that looks like Captain America but sasses like Tony Stark? Answer ... you probably don't. One more reason for him to end this interaction.

"Hmm. Is there something I can help you with .. Ransom?" His voice drops a little, deepens on the name and he silently curses himself. Blames it on the fact that he's still stretched out on hand and knees. Ransom suddenly materializes, standing in front of him, so that Blanc is staring at his shoes. No matter how much it makes him feel imbalanced, he will -not- look up at Ransom from this position. 

He refuses. 

"Actually, there is, in fact, something that needs some helping. But you got it backward, Blanc. See, -I- can help -you- with something." The suggestion is so absurd, that Blanc merely heaves a put upon sigh. But then he's watching Ransom's feet disappear as the younger man steps around him.

In the very next breath, he forgets how the action even goes. He forgets how to -breathe- because there is suddenly a strong palm rubbing lazily across his upturned ass. The action is invasive, definitely stepping over quite a few boundaries, but all he can actually concentrate on is how firm the palm feels. How strong and just -there- it is as it sweeps across the curve of each cheek.

"What on Earth --!" His words are cut off by a gentle pat of the hand followed by a playful chuckle.

"No one has really done much cleaning since Grandfather died. The place can get mighty dusty. I was watching you, when you walked out ... saw the dust. Figured I'd come out here .. and lend a helping hand." Almost absently, as an afterthought, Blanc wonders if he could shove his face into the carpet and just cease to exist for a moment as tendrils of embarrassment reach up, through his stomach. He is almost convinced that he's probably blushing.

"But this .. this is just because." Ransom's hand slips down and smacks lightly against his left ass cheek, causing him to yelp in surprise and drop flat onto his stomach in case the man considers doing it again. Before he can growl and spit fiery indignation, Ransom has stepped back around him and is headed back toward the room with his family.

"... for fuck's sake." Blanc exhales the words heavily before carefully climbing back to his feet. With jerky motions, he tries to straighten his suit, feeling all kinds of ruffled and out of place. 

This simply will not do. It seems avoidance might be the best tactic.

* * *

Of course, avoidance usually works better if you're not stuck in a house with the person you are trying to avoid. It works as a short term solution, but even if the situation is not long term, it ceases being effective after a time.

Which is why, the very next night, he finds himself in a most awkward situation. 

Though they are all in this place because of a criminal situation, basic life still goes on. Which means people eat and sleep, shower and generally take care of themselves. Given the fact that he's the detective in charge of all of this, he has managed to avoid the suspects during all of these domestic moments. He doesn't eat with them, doesn't interact with them unless he's questioning them. Thus, avoiding Ransom has been rather easy so far. But, all good things must come to an end.

Blanc is carefully running a towel through his damp hair as he makes his way into the kitchen. The Drysdale-Thrombey have long since gone to bed, allow him time to take a shower and relax for the night. He's not doing as well as he usually would be on such a case. In fact, he'd have usually eliminated at least two of the suspects by now. Instead, all he has managed is to raise even more questions. 

(He blames Ransom for his inability to fully concentrate. Every time he starts to slip into his Sherlockian groove, he remembers the feel of that hand on his ass and it's too much.)

Blanc stops in front of the fridge, absently looping the towel around his shoulders before he opens the fridge door and glances at the contents.

"You know, since I was little, the kitchen has always been one of my favorite places in a house. You can usually find something so wonderful to devour." The double entendre is delivered in that same sassy voice he has been avoiding and he draws in a quick breath. One hand remains on the fridge door, the other reaching out to grab the towel around his shoulders. He suddenly wishes he had thought to put on more than boxers and a bathrobe before coming downstairs. Serves him right for forgetting that he's in the middle of something professional.

"I honestly have nothing to say to that, Ransom." His words are a sigh, his shoulders sagging a little as a sudden wave of exhaustion washes over him. He's so tired, all of a sudden. Feels adrift in a sea of loneliness that he must battle down. Again, he's supposed to be a professional.

"That's okay, Blanc. Very few know what to say .. or even how to handle me." Blanc strains to figure out of that's another DE or if he means it .. decides it's probably a bit of both and sighs again. He's just about to decide to go to bed without eating when he feels hands coming down on his shoulders. He stiffens immediately, wanting to reach for a weapon that isn't there. "Relax, detective. I'm not going to take you out in the middle of the kitchen or something. You just .. you look tense. Like you're about to snap in half." The hands on his shoulders begin to move. Digging deep into muscles already knotted with anxiety and stress, made worse by the unexpected touch. He will not admit it, but Ransom's hands are professional quality as they seek out each knot and knead them free. Blanc finds himself swallowing down a moan of appreciation. That is the last sound he can afford to make.

"Might some of that have to do with the sudden touching, Ransom?" The question is gritted out because he's still struggling not to sag back, against the younger man. Struggling not to melt into the intimate, unfamiliar touch that he doesn't want to end. 

"Oh, I'm sure some of this tension and ... hard things are from my touch, but you've looked over wound since the first time I saw you. In the window." Any progress made in such a short time evaporates instantly. So, Ransom had seen him, then? For some reason, that makes his pulse race a little, his heart flutter. He clears his throat and starts to straighten up until the hands are sliding down his arms, grasping him at the elbows. At the same time, Ransom presses against his back.

His first thought? God, the man is a wall of unyielding muscle. The way he fits against him knocks his breath right out. His second thought? If this doesn't end ASAP, he's going to embarrass himself. His thoughts are cut off by a gust of hot breath against the shell of his ear and the edge of his cheek. He hisses in surprise his stomach fluttering and then tightening. What the actual fuck!?

"From the ground, you looked impressive enough. Coiled muscle filling a window .. but then I walked into that room full of my asshole family and the first time I saw you, I thought ....." Ransom draws the moment out, each word a puff of moisture across his skin and he bites back a moan and a whimper. This kid is trying to kill him ... a most unfortunate, horrible 'joke' given the circumstances, but he is not really in control of -anything- at the moment ... the situation, his thoughts, or his body's reaction. He sucks in a trembled breath, presses his lips into a compressed line of agitation to keep from demanding he finish that damn sentence. ".... God, that's a mouth I'd really like to cum in. You'd look so delicious, lips red and swollen around me." 

The wall of heat disappears, but Blanc is too shocked .. too short circuited to reply. Not that it matters. By the time he remembers to breathe .. remembers that he can -move-, he's all alone again. He steps closer to the fridge once he's opened the freezer and shoves his head inside, the chill combating the blush across his cheeks. 

This kid is -definitely- trying to kill him.

* * *

Blanc spent a good portion of the night convincing himself that what he thinks happened, didn't. There is no way in hell that one of his suspects felt him up and made an overly sexual advance focused on his mouth ... it did not happen. The fact that he woke up and had to jerk off as discreetly as possible had nothing to do with said advance, either, because IT DIDN'T HAPPEN! 

His plans for ultimate denial are greatly helped by the fact that he is busy with the other members of the Drysdale-Thrombey family during the majority of the day. What is not helped is his mood. What little bit of good faith he had in people has been summarily destroyed watching these pretentious, overly ego inflated jackholes complain about how their easy lives are oh so hard and they love a man they obviously detested. The little bit of patience he has left has been shredded to frayed fragments after dealing with Ransom's Mom. It's a little painful that he didn't really bother learning her proper name, but only her relation to the man that did not make a pass at him. 

The one person he has managed -not- to interview all afternoon ... is Ransom himself. He is stuck between wanting to let the other two handle the face-to-face with Ransom and wanting to see the kid again himself. That second reason is quickly convincing him to let the first thing happen. 

But, as it is often proven in life, what we want rarely matches up with what we get. 

"I'm not late for my private session am I, detective?" Blanc blanches at the oh so saccharine voice. He's become -used- to it, which makes no sense because they've bare interacted. Though they were -memorable- interactions, it's not really something he should be feeling anything about. Ransom is a suspect, damn it! Hell, if his Family is anything to go by, this is right up hi dysfunctional alley, but he never makes it a practice to take anyone's word on someone else. 

As a general rule, everyone lies. 

"I wasn't aware you expected a private session, Ransom. I'm afraid you've set yourself up for disappointment." His words cause Ransom to laugh and it doesn't grate across Blanc's nerves as it should. Because it's surprised, light, nothing as fake as the facade the kid seems to wear moment he's around his family. It's ... fuck, it's a -sweet- laugh and what the hell even!? This man is a murder suspect and Blanc wants nothing more than to wrap him in a blanket and remind him that he's a grown ass man capable of staying far away from the toxic BS he calls family. 

Instead, he remains seated in the wingback chair he's been occupying for these many hours. He refuses to glance over at the younger man, which is altogether a fruitless attempt because Ransom positions himself invitingly in the chair across from him. Legs splayed in obvious display, jeans a tight, 'painted on' line along his hips and thighs. Blanc's eyes absolutely do -not- stray down, across that well toned body that so fully suggests power. 

"I don't know, Blanc. I have a feeling there's very little about you that could ever be disappointing." That is not a compliment he is used to getting, especially when he has a feeling that there are very few things this sassy boi is ever earnest or sincere about. He feels his sense of resistance crumbling and he doesn't like it. The impenetrable shield that surrounds everything personal is starting to fail and he almost wants to punch Ransom for being the one to begin breaking through.

Almost.

Instead, he takes a deep breath and pushes himself to the edge of his seat. Stares the younger man down.

"I am sure that is entirely untrue, but it is also so very besides the point. I've been watching you and your family, Ransom. It .. well, I'm sure it's no secret that you lot are about the most dysfunctional I've ever seen and that is -saying- something, given my line of work. But you see, I've been at this a long time, Ransom .. and I've gotten rather good at knowing people. And you .. I know something about you." He scoots a little closer to the other man, until he's balanced precariously on the edge of his seat. "... I think you have something you want to tell me." He chooses his words carefully, trying to offer the younger man a way out, a way to talk about what he normally wouldn't. Ransom has no reason to trust him .. no reason to actually tell him anything, but he -is- good at reading people and beyond measure of rationality, this young man seems to have latched onto him in some way. 

So, he's hoping his words will have an impact. 

Of course, as seems to be the case with Ransom, he's in no way prepared for the impact his words -do- have.

"You're right, detective Blanc . there's something I want to tell you." Ransom scoots to the edge of his seat, their knees brushing even as he leans toward Blanc. Who is suddenly having a little trouble breathing from the proximity, heat flushing him as he struggles to remember that a certain conversation did not happen. "I didn't do this ... I know you don't really believe me yet, but that's okay. By the end of this, you'll understand me better. But that's only part of what I want to tell you." In the next moment, Ransom is up, off the chair and Blanc finds himself being manhandled backward until his lap is open. Though it is only open as long as it takes Ransom to begin straddling his thighs, hands grasping the wing back of the chair as he stares down at Blanc. The very picture of Alpha masculinity. "Tonight .. eleven o'clock .. that's how long I'm going to give you to come to terms with this. At eleven, I'l be waiting right here for you."

What.

The.

Fuck!? 

This little prick actually thinks that he's going to risk his career to meet a suspect in the dark of night?? The very thought goes against everything he's ever believed in.

And yet .... and yet. He must admit, if only to himself, that there is an and yet .. because there is. Something about Ransom is intriguing, and not just the warm weight of him in his lap, or the hands that leave the wing back to caress across his cheeks and clasp him at the jaws. For one moment, he wonders if nails will soon dig in.

"Why on earth would I do something that foolish, Ransom?" He drawls the name out slow and sensual and without any actual permission from himself to do such. The way Ransom jerks on his lap, digging down, into his thighs, suggests that he rather likes the pronouncing of his name. Interesting. 

"Because ... you're a curious man by nature and you want me. The moment you saw me out the window, you wanted me, and I am offering myself to you. And because, if you -don't- meet me here, once you do finally accept that I'm innocent, you'll be pissed off that you didn't take the chance. Eleven o'clock, Blanc." Before he can say or do anything, Ransom has tilted his head down, brushed lips slow and silken across his own before vacating his lap.

11 o'clock. Yeah, right. There's no way in hell he'll be here.

* * *

By 11:05 he had been tossing and turning in a bed that he had no intention of sleeping in. Or, at least, his body seemed to have no intention, despite how his mind felt. He had spent far too long considering Ransom's .. proposal. Considering what would happen if he did throw all good sense to the wind and meet him. 

Ten minutes after that, he's creeping downstairs feeling utterly disgusted with himself, but also thrumming with a sense of anticipation he hasn't felt in quite some time. This is wrong. It flies in the face of everything he's supposed to stand for and God, does he want it so bad.

He slinks into the drawing room and draws up short. There's a fire going, bathing the room in orange, red, and gold and creating the perfect silhouette of Ransom in the wing back chair. His long, strong legs are stretched out, feet resting on the opposite seat. There's just enough light to see the fuzzy, thigh length beige sweater that seems to be the only article of clothing Ransom is wearing. 

Because, once again, this kid is trying to kill him.

Blanc's mouth has gone dry, his fingers picking at the heavy blue robe he's wearing as he continues to stare for a moment. The man is a work of art ... arms muscled and pulling against the sleeves, thighs parted and stretching the material against his skin. Having had Ransom in his lap earlier, he knows just how powerful the man is and it's an absolute turn on. Given the tent of the fabric over the younger man's crotch, Blanc isn't the only one turned on by the anticipation of the situation.

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't show, detective." All the self assured cockiness has drained from Ransom's voice to be replaced by a cool, light timbre that causes Blanc to shiver. If this were the type of tone he used on a regular basis, the young man would probably be living a much happier life. 

"If I were a smarter man, Mr. Drysdale, I wouldn't've." It's a last ditch attempt to remind himself that he's a professional, but it doesn't really matter, does it? Ransom simply chuckles as he reaches down to run the flat of is palm down his own thigh, smoothing the fuzzy material of the sweater down, and dear God does Blanc want to do that for him. Is so compelled to, in fact, that he stumbles a few steps into the room before he stops himself again. 

"I thought I said enough with the last name, Blanc?"

"What else can I to call you?" His feet take another few steps and he tries to stop himself, but can't. Each pace draws a quickened breathe and he nearly whimpers when he realizes that he's only a few feet from Ransom. A few more steps and he can -touch- but he's not supposed to want to do that. 

He has stepped close enough, that he can see all of Ransom's face in glowing detail and it's enough to set his skin aflame with desire. The man is so many things ... pretty, handsome, boyish and irresistible. Especially now that all of his snarky shields have fallen away and Blanc is getting to see the tired but beautiful man beneath the facade. Ransom turns his head, eyes blazing from the firelight, a playful smile curling his full lips.

"For now, Ransom ... but one day, Blanc .... you'll call me Sir." It's such an absurd thought! The boy is over a decade his junior and the little smart ass thinks he'll call him sir? "Shh. I'm not trying to piss you off. Come here." He doesn't hesitate. He takes the last few steps and falls easily to his knees. He lays his cheek ever so gently on Ransom's thigh, sighing deeply as the fuzzy material of the sweater tickles against his cheek. It's ticklish and warm and every thing he thought it would be. Perfect. His eyes flutter shut, nostrils flaring. This close, he can smell the musk unique to Ransom and it makes his mouth water.

"Mm. Such a good boy, Benoit." Blanc's breath stutters and stops for a split second before he is whimpering and nuzzling his cheek against the fuzzy sweater once more. It sends electric shocks through his body and he never would've thought that something so soft would make his dick so hard. "Sit up." It takes far too much self control not to bark yes sir as he lifts his cheek so that he is looking up at the younger man. There is a raw hunger in Ransom's eyes. It's not a look he's had directed at him in some time. "God, you follow so well. Now. Do you remember what I said about your mouth?" 

So much for pretending that didn't happen. The memory hits him in technicolor, drawing a deep moan as he replays the scene in his mind.

"God, that's a mouth I'd really like to cum in. You'd look so delicious, lips red and swollen around me." Blanc quotes word for word and Ransom jerks, his hand moving to wrap around his hard on through the sweater, squeezing. 

"Fuck. It's hot that you remember that. Smart is sexy ... of course, a beautiful man on his knees for me is sexy, too." Blanc stiffens on reflex when Ransom's hand slides up, through the short hair at the back of his skull. Tight and demanding. It takes no coaxing, no guiding. Blanc reaches out, grabs the side of the chair with one hand, the hem of the sweater with the other. He carefully peels the material back, that scent from earlier doubles and he licks his lips in anticipation. With the sweater moved, he's free to slide his palm up the swollen shaft of Ransom's dick, groaning at heft of it. Ransom sucks in a hissed breath, head falling back against the chair. He looks good like that ... neck stretched long, muscles coiled at the ready. 

Blanc silently hopes that he doesn't fuck this up. He's not about to take the time to tell Ransom that he's never done this before. 

So, he does what he does best .. follows his instincts and dives right in.

One last lick of his lips to make sure they're wet, and then he flicks his tongue across the flared head of Ransom's dick. The musty, salty taste is a little strange, but not off putting. When Ransom moans loudly, the taste doesn't really matter. He flicks his tongue again, and while Ransom is mid moan, wraps his lips around the wet head. The moan becomes a growled FUCK and Blanc has never felt so powerful before. 

Ransom's hand tightens against the back of his head as he begins to lick the underside of Ransom's dick. Works his tongue along the sensitive vein and feels the younger man squirming all around him. When Ransom's hip buck on instinct, Blanc chokes and quickly pulls off. Glares up at him with watery eyes. In retaliation, he pinches his thigh.

"Fuck! Watch it!"

"Be careful, and I will." He takes a deep breath and then leans forward again, pushed against the side of the chair as he licks up the length of Ransom's dick before popping the head back into his mouth. He slurps slowly, spurred on by another hissed moan from the younger man before he wraps his hand around the base. He remembers a woman doing this at some point ... he takes him as deep as he can, hollows his cheeks until they are pressed tight against the hot, wet muscle. His hand glides up until it meets his mouth and Ransom throws his head back with a loud groan and a wailed FUCK. 

Blanc closes his eyes, feels the burn of his lips as they stretch around him, taking him so deep he bumps the back of his throat.

"Fuck ... Benoit .. look so good stretched on my dick." Blanc groans and Ransom's body jerks, shuddering at the vibration even as Blanc's tongue begins to swirl. Lapping and licking the length of his shaft as he lifts up and off to take a hasty breath. It doesn't occur to him to breathe through his nose yet. He licks at his lips, tastes the salt of precum and almost whimpers at how sensitive his mouth feels. As he runs his tongue along his lips, he can feel how swollen they are. Can picture them spit slick and red from sucking. Ransom reaches down to run his thumb across Blanc's bottom lip, causing him to hiss. Yeah, they are sensitive and swollen. 

"Such a good boy." Ransom practically purrs the words and Blanc leans forward and bites his thigh where he had pinched it. Not hard, just enough to make the younger man squirm and smirk down at him. "I'm not going to stop." 

Ransom carefully pushes Blanc's head away before he stands and points to the opposite chair. Blanc scrambles to his feet, pulling his robe open before settling in the chair. The younger man produces a tube and squeezes something onto his palm before wrapping said palm around Blanc's dick. He hisses and bucks his hips, moaning without restraint as the hand slides from base to tip, squeezing and palming at him. It's not the first time he's been touched, but it's the first time a man who knows exactly what he's doing has touched him. 

It's intoxicating .. maybe a little addicting. For the first time since arriving, he has actually managed to forget why he's here, what's going on. His hands fly out, grasping the arms of the chair as Ransom continues to jack him, coating his hard on in the warmed lube. 

"So fucking beautiful like this, Benoit." Blanc nearly blushes at the term, but he's too preoccupied to think on it. When the hand suddenly falls away, he actually whimpers at the lose of heat and friction. He starts to reach for himself, only to have his hand batted away. "Don't even think about it. Besides, you'll like this better." He scowls, but doesn't protest when Ransom pulls his sweater all the way off and the younger man is sculpted like a superhero. Tight, muscular, more defined than a rich kid that never had to lift a finger, should be. Perfect. 

"R-Ransom .." He can barely breath as he watches Ransom turn. His ass. There could be sonnets written about that ass! The flawless peach like curve of each cheek, the dimples at the small of his back right above ... Benoit commits it to memory, the same as he does every thing else. He's a little ashamed to admit to himself that he will remember this entire encounter long after it is over. As horrible as the phrase is, and despite how distasteful he finds it .. this will definitely be some delicious spank bank material. 

"I know, Benoit. I know." The words are soft, almost crooned, as if Ransom is trying to calm a spooked animal rather than talk to a rational man. But then .. he doesn't feel too rational right now. He's burning up from the inside out, aching hot and heavy. He needs ... he just knows he needs. Ransom is the answer, and later tonight, once he's no longer a panting bag of hormones, he'll have time to freak out over that fact. "Grab my hips and hold carefully." His hands are already reaching before he finishes speak, grabbing at his athletic hips and holding him in place. He watches, fascinated, as Ransom slides backward until he's straddling just above his hips. He's not even touching him but it's still somehow erotic and edging on pornographic. Something about Ransom trusting him with his back to him piques his emotions. 

He's touched by the display. 

Ransom wiggles a little in his hold but doesn't pull his hips free. In fact, he seems to arch into the hold, using it to balance his weight as he reaches behind him. Once again, that confident, deft hand wraps around his dick and he shudders. When he feels the flared head press against the puckered ring of muscle, he nearly shouts. Biting his lip until it hurts is the only thing that keeps him from making enough noise to wake most of the house. 

The wet, slick heat of a lubed hole drags against the sensitive head and he would almost swear he has a mild out of body experience. 

"You .. you're already prepared?" A fleeting moment of loss is experienced when he thinks about how it would've been to finger Ransom's ass open himself. Though, on second thought, Ransom seems to have experience in all of this, so maybe next time. 

His hands tighten so hard that Ransom whines in pain. Of course, he hadn't meant to do it, but his thoughts have betrayed him. Next time. Ransom is a murder suspect, which is the -only- reason they have any kind of acquaintance. There can -not- be a next time. 

"Benoit .. you still with me?" He is drawn instantly from his thoughts, chastising himself silently that he needs to just live in the moment. Enjoy the slow, rough glide of his dick pushing deeper and deeper into Ransom's eager ass. When the younger man flexes his body, Blanc's vision whites out at the edges a little, hands digging into those athletic hips again. "Fuck .. liked that .. huh?" He's assuming that is a rhetorical question since he doesn't have enough breath or coherence to answer. 

Instead of trying to verbally do so, he leans up and bites into Ransom's shoulder blade, marks the skin and then soothes his tongue across it. Oh yes, there's something primal that surges up through him when he pulls back and sees something of himself left behind. His teeth and spit marked on flesh. His dick twitches in Ransom's stretched hole, the younger man using his free hand to slap over his mouth and muffle the loud, enthusiastic moan the mark inspires.

"Liked that, huh?" Blanc mimics Ransom's tone, grunts when the younger man flexes in retaliation and nearly causes Blanc to cum. 

Seriously.

Trying to kill him.

When he finally bottoms out, Ransom is in his lap and he cannot think of a more intimate moment. No female partner had ever ever felt quite this .. close and connected. He's far too old to be thinking these things, questioning these things about his life. 

"Okay ... not usually the type to compliment, but .. nice size." Benoit considers biting him again, until he realizes that the words, while playful, are also true. So he leans forward and kisses the darkening mark, instead, causing Ransom to go completely still. "D-do that again.." With a hidden smile, Blanc leans up and kisses him again. Slow, gentle .. sweet. Far too sweet for whatever this encounter is supposed to be. Ransom makes a small but pleased sound that warms Blanc all over.

This is dangerous. Too dangerous. Feelings are the bane of his profession. They are messy and complicate everything!

"B-Benoit .. p-please .." Ransom is officially begging. Blanc assumes he missed some request or something, but he's not sure what. Not until he realizes that he's no longer sheathed in the tight, wet heat of his pucker. Oh, well, instincts know exactly what to do now. He braces his feet against the floor, tightens his thighs, and begins to thrust. Pushes upward quick and hard to bury his dick deep in Ransom's ass, only to pull back almost immediately. Despite the odd angle, the burn in his arms from helping support part of Ransom's weight, it's well worth it. Every thrust causes Ransom to clench just right, working his shaft like a high dollar whore. The squeeze, release ... the gasps and moans ... it's a soundtrack of flesh slapping and blissful pleasure and Benoit knows that he's not going to last. 

"Fuck .. R-Ransom ..." He's a little horrified that it sounds as if he's asking permission. His voice is raw and reedy and he is two seconds from begging this man to let him cum. 

"Y-yeah. Yeah .. come on, Benoit .. come on ..." Ransom is breathless, each begging word half wheezed as he begins to move with him. Every time Blanc thrusts up, Ransom pushes down and there's no real rhythm to it, both too far gone. When he feels himself drawing up, gut fluttering, he shifts his hands. Moves to wrap an arm around Ransom's waist to forcefully pull down until they're almost flush against each other. He whines softly as he feels himself begin to cum.

His free hand snakes around Ransom's body, palming at his hard, slick dick, pumping quickly until Ransom turns his head and bites his own bicep desperately to muffle his shout of pleasure as he cums. The feel of warmth spreading across his fingers and palm makes him shiver. 

"That .. that was ..." Ransom gives a bit of a hiccuping laugh before he pries himself out of Blanc's hold. Once the other man is free, Blanc shifts a little uncomfortably, missing the warmth and closeness, though he won't say that. Because this was a mistake, no matter how much he enjoyed it. 

"Yes. It was." He watches, silently, as Ransom grabs his sweater and wipes his stomach off. After a moment, he reaches back and dabs at his swollen hole, too, and Benoit shivers. It's hot, watching the muscular man clean up, but he's trying not to think about all of this. Carefully, Ransom tucks the soiled sweater against his groin, suddenly seeming a little bit .... shy. Wow. Shy? After every thing that has happened?

"I can't believe we didn't wake everyone up." Ransom bites at his bottom lip, glancing up at Blanc from beneath his lashes before he takes a step forward. He leans forward and down, until they are almost nose to nose. "Go get some sleep, Benoit. I'll see you in the morning."

Benoit swallows heavily as he watches Ransom turn and walk away, the firelight reflecting perfectly off his ass.

".. yes, sir." He tries to whisper the words, but the sudden swagger in Ransom's step shows him that he heard. He leans back in the chair, carefully retying his robe as he tries to decide how badly he's fucked up. 

His introspection only lasts roughly twenty minutes before he gives up and does as Ransom suggested ... heading to bed.

* * *

Shortly after noon the next day, Linda Drysdale is arrested for murder.

**Fin**

**Author's Note:**

> -facepalms-


End file.
